Chapter 3: Stories and Hunger

We really did become desk mates, and it drove me crazy. Her presence was like a constant itch I couldn’t scratch.

But she went around telling people I was really nice, that we’d been classmates in middle school. At first, everyone believed it—people like a good story, and she was always telling one.

I didn’t want to ruin my good reputation, so when others asked, I just nodded stiffly. It was easier that way. Less drama.

She still bragged. Bragged about her mom loving her. Bragged in class, bragged in essays, wrote so sincerely that even the English teacher was moved to tears.

She said it over and over, and the classmates were dumbfounded. It was like she lived in a different world, one with sunlight and Sunday brunches and birthday parties.

I found it funny. It’s obvious whether someone is loved or not. You don’t need a Hallmark card to see the truth.

Every week when we reloaded our lunch cards, I never saw her do it, at least not for a month. She hung back, always acting busy, eyes on the floor.

No matter how cheap the food was, even the gray pizza slices cost two bucks, and the free soup tasted like dishwater. The lunch lady never gave extra, not even for a smile.

Was she trying to survive on air? Sometimes I’d deliberately get an extra roll or slice of bread and say I couldn’t finish it. She’d act all reluctant: “Okay, I’ll eat one. My mom doesn’t let me eat other people’s food.” Her voice would get all small, but you could see the hunger in her eyes.

She had a really old phone, said her mom bought it for her online, it broke down every few days, and she was always borrowing a dollar or two from classmates to top up her minutes. The phone was one of those off-brand flip phones, with a screen that flickered like a dying firefly.

Her phone was lousy, but she loved calling her mom. Every night at nine, when her phone died, she’d borrow mine to call her mom. I never lent it. Not out of spite, just because—well, I didn’t want her problems on my line.

So she’d borrow from the kids sitting behind us, the ones who weren’t even nice to her, and call her mom. When she returned the phone, she’d carefully delete the number: “No choice, my mom is very clingy, wants me to call her every day. I’ll delete the number now, my mom is busy, if you accidentally call her, it’s not good.” She’d tap away, serious as a surgeon.

But when I checked the call log, she never actually got through. The call never even connected.

How could she have talked so long if the call never connected? So fake. And a liar.

I couldn’t be bothered to expose her, in case she stopped letting me copy her notes. Priorities, right?